''What are your names?'' Faramir let the two children into his fair chamber, allowing them to stand by the tired yellow fire that burned under a stone arch opposite the curtains, and warm their hands. ''In the common tongue?'' 'He could spell their original names, but even with practice he doubted he could say them easily, for their seemed to be many sounds completely foreign to the western tongue. Even knowing something of their speech was little help.
''He Who Kills Foolish Western Men.'' The young prince glowered, rubbing his knuckles.
''Storm.'' The girl glanced at Faramir, lowering her light hood and revealing long braided hair blacker than the coals behind the grate. She spoke well for age, though she had a slight lisp. ''He is Storm, I think, or Whirlwind. My name is Stream, or River.''
''Storm and River will do.'' Faramir strode passed them and gave orders to the bored guard outside to bring food and stools, observing their expressions as they looked around the clean and wide chamber that was mostly decorated with harmonious shades of white and silver. The boy frowned at the intricate images of trees in the hangings. It was very different from the bright, almost gaudy, clothing of the newcomers, making them stand out like candles in darkness. ''You seem to be quite fluent in the common tongue.''
It did not take long for the chairs and food to be brought up from shadowy stores below the Citadel, warmed milk and cakes, a meal received with inevitable ingratitude by the boy.
''Where is the wine?'' He scowled over his folded arms, leaning on the table ''Or do you people only drink slime from cows?'' Snorting and scuffling the caret with his sandals, he added. ''That would not surprise me.''
''You will have warm milk until I say otherwise.'' Faramir told him, sternly, putting as much authority as he might into his voice and bearing as he stood over them. ''I know you do not wish to be in Minas Tirith, but remember, you are not royalty here. You are guests. It is our custom for guests to show some courtesy to the host.''
''Guests! Hostages, more like.'' Storm threw the milk on the floor. ''But I still have my pride! I might die, but I will die a prince!''
Faramir bit his tongue as he examined the youth, deciding not to point out- yet-that with this behaviour he would make a very poor prince indeed, in Harad or Gondor or anywhere else in Middle Earth. He was a spoiled, frightened boy. Nothing less and nothing more. The Steward considered various responses to the boy's outburst, thinking of each carefully.
First. He could simply give him a cup of wine, as he demanded. Faramir had already decided against that, however, for he would surely become more difficult than ever. Frightened he might be, but Storm would always want to have his own way.
Second. A show of authority. Boromir and Denethor would have made this choice. The most obvious way to do this would be have a guard fetch him a stick , or a sword if he wanted to be particularly harsh, and whip him across the backside or legs. It was tempting, certainly.
Looking into the defiant eyes, however, Faramir understood that the boy would only use this as an excuse to hate him.
And it would not work. Faramir was not sure what kind of discipline the boy had known, but he did not seem to be unused to pain, judging by the scars and bruises. Annoyed as the Steward was, he did not want to injure the prince because of a mug of milk, even if it had not been against his orders. Better to show restraint for now.
Besides, Faramir considered as he surveyed them, he had to think of the girl. She might be as spoiled as her sibling, but now she was simply terrified. He did not want to cause her more discomfort.
Third. Let him suffer the consequences of his actions. That seemed to be the best plan.
''Here is a cloth.'' Faramir lifted a rag off the wide oak mantelpiece and went behind the curtains, where he wet it in the small barrel beside the bed, and handed it to Storm. ''You will clean this mess, and if you apologize, you may have water.'' He had to fight the sudden urge to have vinegar brought up in the guise of wine, but that seemed too...immature.
Storm reddened, fists tight around the tablecloth, but seemed too shocked to speak.
''I will clean it , sir.'' River stood and reached out for the cloth, rocking the large table, and knocking over her own mug in her nervousness. ''It is not fitting for a boy, especially a prince to wash the floor.'' Then she screamed as she saw the mess she had made. ''I am sorry!''
''A prince should learn to clean up after himself.'' He frowned at the boy, but he felt pity when he saw the girl trying to wipe the stain with her hands. He gave her the cloth. ''Here. Do not worry. It was an accident.''
''I am a prince!'' The boy rubbed his bloodshot eyes, scowling at the table. ''I command armies! I count coins! Mountains of them! Or I would have if you people had not made such a fuss over a piece of land! It was ours!''
''South Gondor has not belonged to Harad for many years now.'' Said Faramir, sitting opposite him. ''What is more, your father's invasion cost the lives of nearly a hundred men of Gondor.''
''You killed thousands of us.''
''Five hundred, according to my report.'' Though it must have seemed like thousands to the Prince, if his father had been there. They would need to talk about that grief, but not yet. ''But there will be time for debates later. Just remember, we did not make your father try to take back the land.'' He frowned. ''I am curious, why did he do it? The land has no particular value to either of our countries.''
Storm stuck out his tongue.
''Our uncle Obvious.'' River moaned, digging her elbows into her brother. ''No...that is not his name.'' She muttered a few phrases in her own tongue, running through different words, frowning slightly. ''No, Obsidian. He told our father to fight.''
''A lot of them did.'' Storm shrugged, fidgeting with the cloth. ''Í did, too.''
''This is the same uncle who would marry you?'' Faramir looked at River, who shuddered and lowered her eyes, but nodded. ''It sounds as if he wanted your father out of the way,so that he could take the throne. Maybe he killed your father as much as the King did. But what worries me is what he is planning against Gondor.'' He sighed, trying not to worry too much. ''The King will find out, I dare say. He is staying in Harad longer than he meant to, though the Queen should be back within a week.''
''Maybe he does not care about Gondor.'' Snapped Storm. ''You people think the world is all about you.''
Faramir did not bother to answer this. Southrons had always cared about Gondor, in the worst possible way, bitter against kings long dead and years of servitude long passed. He saw River rubbing the carpet as well as the tablecloth, but before he could say anything, there was a knock at the door.
A guard told them that the chambers had been prepared, and Faramir decided to walk with them. He had little better to do right now. In any case, he did not want the Prince Storm quarrelling with the guards.
''I want wine.'' Storm moaned, looking into the cup with almost comical sorrow.
''You did not clean up after yourself.'' Faramir told him, frowning, gesturing for them to go out into the upper passage, which now seemed to be wreathed in ice. ''You will live on bread and water until you learn manners.''
''I will have the same...sir...'' River glanced up at him, keeping close to her brother as they went down the echoing stone steps.
''If you insist.'' It was not fair on the girl, and he knew he would have to make better arrangements. ''Now, you are not prisoners. Tomorrow I will have a guard show you around the city, but you will not be allowed to wander alone. '' He paused. ''My people suffered greatly in the War of the Ring. You will find men who still remember the day they ran over to look at what they thought was a rock thrown by a catapult and found the heads of friends and family, branded with the eye. If you are bitter at the loss of your father, consider their hurt.''
''We never did that.'' River was crying as they went outside, the cold night a monochrome blue, nearly black in the shadows along the earth and sapphire where the misty moonbeams fell, fading to a dull cyan along the tops of the wall. The towers and battlements of the Citadel above him was like a vast ice sculpture that would never melt. Faramir might have enjoyed the almost mystical view, but the children were shivering.
They were led quickly around the back of the fortress, passing niches and hollow windows and then out across a stone court to a small but graceful white house.
More comfortable now than it had been, there were tapestries on the walls and rugs warming the floor, while cushions had been set upon the hard chairs around the table and upon the bench at the back.
But it was not luxurious. The two beds were hidden by curtains in the left corners, and these completed the furniture. Stairs led up to shimmering shadows at the right, dust glittering around the lamps. Of course, the visiting royalty was not impressed.
''Is this a house or a dungeon?'' Storm snorted, to Faramir's lack of surprise. ''Leave us.''
The Steward did leave, but lingered upon the steps outside the door when it was nearly shut, hearing them speaking in their own tongue, thankful the King had asked him to study it not long before setting out to war. It seemed the King Elessar 's foresight was as strong as ever.
Faramir could understand most of their words, when he listened, even if he could not say them.
''You are going to get us killed!''
''They are going to kill us anyway!'' The boy might have been pacing, judging by the odd thump when he hit a chair. ''I am sorry, I cannot protect you. They call us guests, but we are hostages. And hostages die. Sooner or later.'' He seemed to curse. ''But dying I can take.'' There was a slight quiver in his voice that suggested otherwise. ''It is the humiliation I cannot stand. They want to turn us into servants before they kill us!''
''Servants?''
''It is servants who have to be polite! Who have to thank people for a glass of water! Who have to be grateful for lying on a piece of stinking fleece like this mockery of a bed! That is for lower people.''
''Maybe they are poorer than we are.''
''Did you see the King?'' Thump. A chair went flying. ''He was not poor! He was probably richer than our father.''
''So...you expect these people...who hate us...to wait on you?'' At least River was pointing out the serious flaw in his thinking. She sounded puzzled. ''You are not making any sense. We should sleep. Maybe you will feel better in the morning.''
''I wish they would just kill us and get it over with!'' Finally, the pride had broken, leaving only a broken emptiness in Storm's voice, and a moment of silence followed. But then he continued, more strongly. ''If they want to play games with us, I will play games with them. I will not let them mold me. They can kill me if they want to, but I will not lick their feet!''
It might have been an impressive speech, if it were not so misguided.
''What about me?'' Asked the girl, the rustle of blankets nearly drowning her voice. ''I am scared. But I am also scared of Obsidian. I do not want to see him again.''
''You should show more courage.'' The young Southron snorted. ''I cannot believe I have a coward for a sister.''
''I want to be brave like you.'' River sighed, her voice somewhat choked. ''Even mother was disappointed in me. She said even a woman should know how to fight.''
''Maybe you can learn from me.''
Faramir listened more, but after this he could hear only the sounds of the children preparing for bed. Something he should be doing, too. When Queen Arwen returned, he would have more time to look after them.
Eowyn would come to the Citadel tomorrow, and she could meet them then, but he decided to warn her of what to expect would probably benefit from her company. Faramir did not like to think what the little maid would learn from her older brother.
Storm seemed to be as much confused as anything. On one hand, he had been taught that he was all powerful, the centre of a kingdom, and everyone else was little more than a beast. On the other hand, he had also been taught that the West were murderous savages who would kill him for fun. Pride and fear were a dangerous combination. And he had lost his family and his home in a few days.
Put that together, Faramir thought, and there was one unbearably annoying but also pitiable prince.
It was some comfort, though, that Storm seemed to care for her, in his own way.
He should also find children their age, Faramir thought. Not to be alone with them, for that was a a path certain disaster, but maybe the Southrons would not feel so threatened by other children. But most of the young ones of Minas Tirith were of low birth. Storm would almost certainly be cruel to them. Faramir decided to put this plan on hold.
His more pressing concern was how they would react to meeting the Elf Queen. The East loathed her people even more than they did Gondor, and he somehow doubted Storm would be touched by the love and admiration felt by the men of the city when they looked upon the Lady. If anything, he might be worse than ever.
Had the King actually met the children? Faramir started back across the courtyard, the tall slabs of shadow seeming to lean over him, broken every few metres by the steady torchlight that highlighted every grain and shadow in the paving. Had he known what he was sending to Minas Tirith? Faramir supposed he must have, but he could not suppress misgivings.
The Stewards head was pounding as he went up the steps and into the citadel, hot stabs of pain digging into his right temple. Tired though he was, he would probably be awake most of the night. It was a depressing thought.
No. As Captain of the White Tower, he had faced legions of warrior orcs and bloodthirsty Southrons, he had passed under the Shadow of the Nazgul, and he had nearly died from fever. Two unpleasant children would, when they had adjusted, not be such a problem-he hoped.
I struggled to think of good Southron names. There is very little said about their language in the Lord of the Rings. This was the best idea I could ome up with. Please review!